


Chasing After Your Name

by godtiermeme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Whisper of the Heart - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-03 00:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13329702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Lance has been dreaming of going to college since he was young, and he fully expects it to live up to all the hype he's seen in movies. He's ready to flirt, party, and he might even consider studying. When he begins finding mysterious drawings on the school printer, often in place of his papers, he begins to develop a crush on someone he doesn't even know.Keith wants nothing more than to survive the year and show his mettle. Following in his graduating brother's footsteps, majoring in pre-law, he has no time for anything but studying. All of this would go a lot smoother without the intervention of some  overzealous nerd, who claims to be his nemesis.





	1. Dream Lantern

**Author's Note:**

> **"HOLY SHIT!!! GODTIERMEME IS WRITING SOMETHING THAT _ISN'T_ DAVEKAT!!!"**  
>  The world stops turning. The earth shakes, and reality begins to crumble. I've done it, kids, I've finally made the leap to Klance. But I'm still writing DaveKat, I just have to get this out of my system. If you pay attention, you'll even see some Homestuck cameos in here. **This is my first actual fic for Voltron, but I've always loved Klance.** (godtiermeme ♥ klance, est. 2016) **I hope you enjoy it! Comments and feedback are welcome, and you can always find me shitposting on[my blog](godtiermeme.tumblr.com)!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Let's make a sign for when we say, "Nice to meet you again."_  
>  _I'm on my way to you, chasing after your name._
> 
>  **"[Dream Lantern](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2IAmjzLju8)"** by RADWIMPS, _Your Name_ / _君の名は。_ (2017)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Since I've never posted a Voltron fic before, I'm going to intro this by saying thanks for reading. All my fics have chapters named after songs, and you don't have to listen to them if you don't want to; they're just the song I was particularly fond of when I was writing the chapter. They're usually soundtracks, but sometimes I have music from bands. The song for this chapter is where the title of the fic is from,

**MONDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER** **…**

For many, their first day at Altea College is their first taste of freedom. It’s a day of excitement and new discoveries, and of coming into one’s own. And it seems as if the world, itself, concurs with this assessment. The day is bright, the sky is clear, and the temperature is perfect. The green leafs on the trees, which line the walkways, sway gently in the slight breeze. It’s a far cry from the relentless downpour three days ago, when the freshmen of Altea College were moving in.

Naturally, everyone is taking advantage of this. Students lounge on beach towels, which are strewn across the grass all over the small campus. While, on a regular basis, a certain Lance Sanchez would be taking full advantage of this opportunity to socialize, today, he has different plans. Today, he has invited his childhood friend, Pidge, to see his dorm room.

“And this,” Lance says, gesturing to his microwave (a college gift from his beloved grandmother), “Is my gourmet kitchen.” To enhance the overall effect of his statement, he bows and steps aside, though he continues to point to the item. A smirk plays across his tanned features. “So, what do you think?”

A snort of laughter serves as a reply. “I think that I have an _actual_ gourmet kitchen,” counters Pidge. She, too, is grinning. Without really thinking about it, she runs her fingers through her thick, fluffy hair. “What does that thing have on Hunk, huh?”

While the comment doesn’t faze him, Lance feigns offense. He recoils, gasping. “It has programmable settings for different foods, _and_ it can heat up a whole hot dog in _fifteen seconds_!”

“Amazing. Remind me to tell Hunk to add that to the menu of his future restaurant, why don’t you?” Accompanying this statement is a playful punch; though, if you were to ask Lance, he’d admit that there’s no such thing as a painless, playful punch from Pidge. “So, that’s it? You brought me all the way here to see a microwave? I have seven of them in the apartment.”

Here, Lance pauses. He considers asking _why_ , exactly, his friend has seven microwaves. However, knowing Pidge’s propensity for collecting the newest and greatest tech, he decides that he doesn’t really want to know. Right now, he’s not in the mood for another passionate lecture about the newfound benefits of the latest meal processor. Instead, he begins arguing his own point. A huff of faux indignation marks the beginning of his response, “I’ll have you know that my _abuelita_ gave me this!”

“Cool for you,” Pidge shrugs. She reaches into one of the many pockets of her cargo shorts, and pulls forth a box of mixed strawberry and chocolate Pocky. From the brief glance he can catch of the inside, it seems to Lance that much of the chocolate is gone; the most likely explanation for this is a visit from Hunk. Pidge, however, clearly isn’t bothered by the missing sticks. She grabs three, sticks them into her mouth, and returns the box to the corresponding section. “I’m sure my grandma would give me cool shit, too, if she wasn’t dead.”

Lance snickers.

Pidge, too, cracks a sly smile. At the same time, she reaches back into her pockets, and pulls forth a round white object. After setting this on the ground, she pulls out her phone.

“Hey! Hey!” Lance interjects, dropping to the floor to study the item, “Don’t you dare fly another drone around my room, Pidge!”

After biting off some of her Pocky, Pidge replies with a snort of laughter. “It’s not a drone, Lance, calm down. It’s a Sphero.”

“A…?” Lance begins.

With a look of unsurprised disappointment and a shaking head, Pidge clarifies, “A Sphero. It’s a robot, and I can make it do things with my tablet. The floors back at Hunk’s place are too uneven for it to do anything more than bounce around, but this floor is perfect.”

“If you end up breaking _another_ of my bottles…”

A mischievous look flashes across Pidge’s face, though it quickly disappears. “Your bottle collection is way out of the way, dude. This thing can’t fly, so I won’t be going anywhere near the top of your dresser with it.” As she speaks, she maneuvers the small robot. It spins around on the floor, like a drunken Beyblade, and wobbles its way around the room. “Matt got me this for my birthday… OH!”

Lance jumps at the sudden exclamation. “What?”

“I should get Hunk to bring the Roomba over here.”

“That’s really nice of you, Pidge,” begins Lance, assuming that his friend is making a kind offer.

Instead, she continues, “If I get the Roomba going, then I can bulk up the Sphero and fight that stupid vacuum robot!”

“And… exactly what do you have against the Roomba? It’s a robot that cleans your house for you, what’s bad about it!?”

Pidge rolls her eyes and pulls up the left sleeve of her green sweater, revealing a fairly large bruise. “That little shit keeps tripping me, and I’m training Rover to fight it! Just you watch, Sanchez, this little Sphero is going to be the next BattleBot.”

Laughing, Lance nods, slowly. “Yeah, I’d pay to see that.” He sighs, jumps onto his bed, and nestles into the pillows. At the same time, he pulls out his phone and checks his to do list. At this point, his smile fades and is replaced by a furrowed brow. “Damn! My quiz!”

“It’s day one,” Pidge mutters, cocking her head to the side, “What sort of asshole professor gives out a quiz on _day one_!?”

“Professor Zarkon,” Lance says, grabbing his laptop from the desk beside him.

Silence falls upon the room. The only noises are the steady tapping of fingers against a Chromebook’s keyboard and the soft whirring of a tiny robot’s motors. After a few moments, it’s broken.

After setting aside his computer, Lance sits upright. “I’m going to run to the library and pick up my printing. You can stay here, if you want.”

“And why would I stay in your room?” Pidge asks, sticking out her tongue.

No verbal response is given. Instead, Lance opens the bottom drawer of his dresser. He pulls a handful of video games out, then gestures to his old PlayStation 2. “I’ve got video games.”

“Hm. That’s fair.” A sound of pure content precedes a rapid scramble for the most interesting game.

At the same time, Lance rushes from the room.

 

The library is practically empty. Lance expected as much. Likewise, when he goes to open the printing dialog, he expects the queue to only contain his paper. After all, who else is printing something on the _first day_ of class? He haphazardly logs into his account, then tells the library printer to spit out the first document it has in its list. When it’s done, he snags the page—still warm—from the tray, and rushes back to his room.

“You never beat Kingdom Hearts?” Pidge greets him when he returns to his room. She’s sitting on top of his bed. One stick of Pocky is hanging from her mouth, like an old western film cowboy’s cigar, and several more are balanced atop her chest. “Lance, you _really_ never beat Kingdom Hearts?”

“I did,” the young man responds defensively. “Manolo erased all my progress.”

“Right,” says Pidge, her voice dripping with suspicion. “And your little brother erased your progress to make a game file named, ‘Cool Lance.’”

Heat rushes to Lance’s cheeks. Though he knows he’s been caught, he makes one last attempt to cover his tracks. “My little brother is very, very attached to me. I’m a shining role model.”

“Whatever.” A crunch. The half of the Pocky not in Pidge’s mouth falls to her chest. With her hands occupied by the controller, she doesn’t bother moving to get another bite.

Lance, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to examine the introductory quiz. According to Zarkon, it’s little more than an evaluation of what each student knows. At this point, however, Lance realizes that he has taken the wrong paper.

The first clue is the name across the top. The school printer stamps each page with the corresponding student’s username and the page number. Where he should be seeing, “LSanchez 1/1”, he’s seeing, “KKogane 1/2.” Instead of questions on his theater experience, he’s met with a detailed and admittedly gorgeous rendering of the school’s fountain plaza. When he turns the page over, he sees a small blurb of text: “Drawn Sunday 8/31/14. Altea University fountain area. Drawing 243/356.” Beneath this is an illegible signature, from which only the last name—Kogane—can be parsed.

Now, Lance has always been a fan of art. The only art he practices is that of theater, but he can appreciate all types of creative endeavors. He’s by no means an expert, but, from what he can see, this “Kogane” character is someone talented. In fact, Lance is willing to bet that Kogane is beautiful, too; after all, old models of beauty held that those who created masterpieces were, themselves, works of art. In his mind’s eye, he imagines Kogane—curvaceous, likely with long, flowing hair, and almost divine in her appearance. Or, maybe, Kogane is a lean but powerful man. Either way would be fine…

“Lance!” Pidge’s voice breaks through the thick veil of thought.

The young man shakes his head. “Shit. Sorry, Pidge, what were you saying?”

“I said that Hunk is going to drive up for dinner tonight. He wants to know if you want to meet with him, Coran, and I at Cook Out.” A look of confusion punctuates the statement. “What’s got you distracted? I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes.”

“Oh,” Lance smiles the most over-the-top grin possible. He holds the paper in his hand like a delicate, ancient painting. “I was just thinking about whoever made this drawing. I accidentally got this instead of my paper.”

“Well, don’t go getting yourself all worked up, because it’ll be Hunk and I cleaning up the mess,” laughs Pidge.

Lance nods, though he’s already allowed his thoughts to drift back to the identity of the unknown artist.

* * *

 **MONDAY, 1 SEPTEMBER** **…**

When Keith Kogane arrives at the library, he’s prepared for a long day. Though he wasn’t supposed to be working until next week, his older brother, Shiro, ended up catching some sort of flu.

Keith had warned him, too. “Don’t sleep over at Allura’s if she’s sick, Shiro,” he’d said. “You’re going to catch whatever weird flu she has,” he said. Did his brother listen to either warning? No! No, he did not! So, now, Keith is being forced to spend his first day of college in a practically empty library, instead of outside, in the beautiful weather, like everyone else.

He arrives promptly at 4:00 PM, having jogged all the way from his last class, which is held on the other side of campus. The campus isn’t exactly large, but it’s still a bit of a walk to get from one side to the other.

“Oh!” A woman approaches him. She’s what can be considered an average height, and her overall figure is fairly curvy. Her golden blonde hair is held back by a a black hair band, but her straight bangs still fall in her lightly tanned face. When she smiles, her lips, coated in black lipstick, part, revealing stunningly white teeth. “You must be Keith. Is my assumption correct?”

“I—” Keith begins.

The woman cuts him off. “I’m Rose, the head librarian. I’m so sorry to hear your brother is sick, and on the first day. I’m not entirely surprised, though. Shiro might seem irreproachable, but he’s got a bit of a rebellious side, too.” At this point, she shoves a haphazardly compiled folder into Keith’s arms. “I must be going. My idiot brother got himself stuck in a tree, like some sort of delusional, acrophobic cat. These papers have scripts, should anyone call or come in with a question. I doubt anyone will, especially on the first day. Farewell.” All of this comes tumbling out like rocks from an overturned container. As quickly as she appeared, the strange woman disappears.

Alone, Keith decides to look at the papers he’d been given. As promised, they’re a variety of prescribed responses for various questions. Some of them are relevant and intelligent, such as, “How does one cite extra materials on a DVD?” Some of the questions, however, are baffling in their pure stupidity. Keith’s personal favorite is, “Which way do I put the DVD in?”

After he’s exhausted his supply of scripts, the bored man stands. Having queued a document earlier, he commands the printer to produce it. Then, he wanders over to the printer, where he finds a single sheet of paper in the tray. Though he doesn’t read the contents, he sees the name on top—LSanchez. A long sigh escapes him, as it seems someone printed the wrong file and took his artwork. However, this is little more than an inconvenience. Since the library isn’t busy, Keith is able to quickly upload the file again. It prints out, and he carefully sticks it inside the corresponding lamination sleeve, which is held within a plain white binder.

 

Keith’s roommate, Slav is a short, slender teenager with wild black hair and medium brown skin. Despite being younger than Keith by a whole year, the eighteen-year-old already boasts an impressive mustache, which he maintains meticulously. He also maintains an obsessive habit of keeping track of probabilities. Whereas Keith prefers a state of organized chaos, Slav is insistent upon maintaining a perfectly ordered environment. Already, having lived with him for only three days, Keith can tell that things won’t be smooth sailing.

“Ah, you’re back!” Slav looks vaguely confused. His eyes dart from his fingers, on which he seems to be calculating something, to the clock. “I assumed there was a 99.93% chance that you would not return before the library hours posted online were over, so I took the liberty of cleaning up your side of the room.” He look quite proud of himself.

Keith, however, responds with a low growl. “ _Don_ _’t_ touch my shit, dude.”

“Well, every unnecessary item on the floor increases the chances of a fatal accident. While I’m sure there’s always a universe where I do not perish in such a fall, there will also be one where I do. Certainly, if the room is messy, this will be that universe.” As he speaks, Slav taps the tips of his fingers together. His eyes dart around the room, never staying in one place for too long. “So, you see…”

“Did you take the image I printed?” interrupts Keith.

Slav pauses; he seems taken aback by the question. “Now, I wouldn’t take your printing. I have not left this room since I returned from class, as the clutter on the floor made me afraid to leave.”

“Well, that settles one mystery,” Keith grumbles as he drops onto his bed. There, he lays perfectly still. He stares at the ceiling and watches, with a sort of rapturous indifference, as a fly buzzes around the overhead bulb. Eventually, there’s a quiet zap. The insect twitches, then falls. As its tiny body descends, both Keith and Slav track its path. Before it hits the ground, Keith rolls over.

Slav, meanwhile rushes to catch it in a tissue. After somehow managing to do this, he wraps it up and disposes of it in the trash can, muttering something about the amount of germs a common house fly has on its body.

* * *

 **TUESDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER** **…**

Overnight, the beautiful weather turned foul. Once again, rain pours from the sky. Lightning streaks across the sky from time to time, and is predictably followed by thunder. This, however, does not deter Lance Sanchez. No! Nothing will deter Lance from his mission of goodwill. He has already sent his paper to the printer (for the second time), and he clutches Kogane’s page to his chest. Though he has an umbrella, he further shields the image with his own raincoat.

By the time he makes it to the library, which is less than five minutes away, he’s soaking wet. He supposes he should have expected as much. The wind was strong, and it easily turned his umbrella inside out; it also blew the rain near-horizontally, making the umbrella useless, anyhow. His precious printed page, however, remains unharmed. Once inside, he carefully extracts the paper from beneath his jacket. He marches to the front desk, places it on the counter, and looks up. Then, he begins trying to turn his umbrella back to its proper position.

His eyes fall upon another young man, with naturally tan skin and thick, straight black hair, which appears to be styled into a mullet. He wears a plain red t-shirt, and the glassy look in his eyes is clearly identifiable as pure, unfiltered boredom. When he speaks, his voice is flat. “You know, umbrellas work best when they’re not inside out.”

Though he knows it’s illogical, Lance finds himself seeing a very, very faint hint of red. “Yeah, I know that,” he snaps.

The other man shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest. “Just making sure.”

“Yeah, thanks, I really appreciate it.” There’s no attempt to hide the animosity in his voice. Lance knows that most people aren’t out to get him—he’s understood this for quite a while—but there’s always that knee-jerk reaction. “You’re not my mom, you know.”

“I sure hope I’m not.” The man’s voice is still emotionless, and his eyes—a dark, but oddly cold shade of brown—belay little more than the marked and continued disinterest in his duties. “Look, it’s Tuesday, and I’m already tired as hell. Can you just tell me what you want?”

“Wow, _someone_ _’s_ a real customer service expert!”

“Yeah, I know. What do you _want_?”

Though he’s now fuming, Lance takes care of the paper in his hands. He lays it out carefully, making sure it’s flat against the fake marble surface, before offering a terse reply. “I picked up the wrong print job, so I’m dropping it here for whoever Kogane is.” After this, he says nothing else. He turns and strides purposefully from the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debated names included Lance Vance, Lance the Rock Johnson, and Lance Atari. ~~I didn’t pick the name as a Book of Life reference.~~


	2. El Aparato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"[El Aparato / Land of the Remembering](https://www.amazon.com/El-Aparato-Land-Remembering/dp/B00VBBAJBM)"** by Gustavo Santaolalla, _The Book of Life_ (2014)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a different fic (DaveKat) bouncing around in my head for a while, and the plot for that is a lot more in-depth than this one. I don't expect this fic to get incredibly long, and it will likely be juggled between my schoolwork, job applications, and that other DaveKat fic. Also [announcer voice], rated T for language.

**WEDNESDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER** **…**

Hunk is what most would consider a big guy, with a girth to match the size of his jovial personality. He’s known for his hugs, and that’s exactly what Lance receives when he walks into the off-campus apartment. It’s not an awkward, intrusive gesture; rather, it’s a friendly and welcome extension of who Hunk is. It ends quickly, and is punctuated by a pat on the back.

“Pidge said that your dorm room is a piece of shit,” Hunk says. A wide grin stretches across his face, which is deeply tanned, as it is throughout the year. “You know, you could have stayed here with us.”

Lance responds with a mix of a chuckle and a groan. “No way, man.” He crosses his arms across his chest and backs away, taking long, purposefu steps, until he’s against the eastern wall. “I’m not staying with you two. That’d cramp my style, and I can’t have that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pidge says, emerging from her room, “We’d all _hate_ to cramp your style.”

“Uh-huh!” Lance nods vigorously. He doesn’t take the time to consider whether the commentary was genuine or sarcastic. “So, what? How’d you even end up in an apartment?”

From the kitchen, which is in the northeast corner, away from the front door, there’s a ding. Hunk scrambles over, opens the oven, and pulls out a casserole dish. Though Lance can’t clearly see what’s inside, he can smell it. Chives, butter, and truffle oil intertwine with the scent of a variety of cheeses, creating a refined, delicately balanced aroma. It fills the room and, though Pidge seems immune, Lance finds his mouth watering. Of course, this revelation comes with another, “Hunk?”

For a few seconds, there’s no answer. With a level of elegant precision some might find surprising from a man his size, Hunk sprinkles a blend of spices on top of the dish. Then, he returns it to the oven. “Wassup, Lance?”

“Okay, pardon me for digging into your business, but where the _hell_ did you get truffles?”

Though Hunk seems ready to answer, ultimately, it’s Pidge who responds. “I did.”

Lance’s jaw hits the floor. Sure, he’s always known that Pidge’s family is wealthy. They’re not exactly the next Gates lineage, but they live in comfort. Even so, he’s never before heard of Pidge doling out cash for anything besides new tech. “ _You_ did?”

“Mhm.” After tapping at her phone screen for a few seconds, Pidge approaches. She tosses the phone, still secured in a military grade case, onto the sofa as she passes. “I figured I might as well show you what a _real_ gourmet kitchen looks like.”

Hunk laughs. It’s a booming, powerful sound. “Yeah, she went out yesterday, after coming back from your place, and went to get some truffle oil.”

Lance sighs. He flops into a leather armchair, which is situated to the right of a large flat-screen TV, and rolls his eyes. “What happened to, ‘Not everything is a competition, Lance?’” As he speaks, he emphasizes his words with air quotes.

“I thought it was a stupid idea,” Pidge smirks. She opens the door of the refrigerator and, with her upper body still inside, she continues, “You want anything to drink?”

“You know it, girl.” Lance grins. He needn’t say more; he and Pidge have been friends since middle school, and she knows his tastes. Within seconds, a Pepsi is being tossed in his direction. He catches it easily. “Aw. I’m touched. You remembered my cola brand.”

“Don’t go crying about it. Pepsi still sucks,” Pidge snickers. When she emerges from her search, she’s clutching her own drink, a vanilla Coke. As she pops it open, she returns to the living room area. “You haven’t said anything about the apartment, you know.”

Lance pauses. He had been so excited to see his friends that he’d forgotten to actually look around. Now, as he does, it dawns upon him just how comfortable Pidge’s family is. First and foremost, the apartment is in a new complex. This isn’t any 1980’s shit shack, this is a bona-fide luxury housing unit. The high ceiling is emphasized by a pair of full length windows, which flank the modern digital fireplace. Right now, the screen is set to display the image of an aquarium.

Perhaps noting his interest in this feature, Pidge eagerly speaks up. “This was a surprise from Matt. He had one of these installed, and it can work as a fireplace or a kick-ass fish tank. Since I’m pretty pumped with just having this thing, I let Hunk pick the fish.”

“It had the option to put Mola Mola on there!” Hunk comes sprinting over, abandoning his place in the kitchen. After sweeping some of his dark brown hair from his face, he gestures to a rather large, round fish. “Look at this dude, Lance. LOOK AT HIM! He’s just… so cute.”

Pidge rolls her eyes, though a smile still graces her features. “Yeah, it’s Hulk Hogan.”

Lance shakes his head. “You… named an electronic fish?” Lance mutters, brows furrowing. As much as he loves his friends, he often finds himself asking _why_ he’s friends with them, and this is one of those times. “And you named it fucking _Hulk Hogan_?”

“Yeah,” Hunk smirks knowingly. “Hulk Hogan, sunfish extraordinaire.” Having said this, Hunk wanders over to the living area. He takes a seat on the couch, and Pidge is quick to settle down at his side. “So, how have the first few days at Altea U been?”

“I saw some dumbass on their iPhone asking Siri to open the Siri app,” Pidge shrugs. As she’s already sunken against Hunk’s side, she looks up at him. Her feet, upon which she wears a pair of slippers styled to look like pterodactyls, hang over the armrest. “Does that count?”

“That’s college, all right!” Hunk laughs. “What about you, Lance?”

At this point, a memory surfaces. He recalls the printed image, which he’d found on the printer. “Pretty chill. Everyone is pretty nice, too. I mean, how can you be around _this_ ,” he gestures to his body, “Gorgeous body, and not immediately feel lightheaded?”

Pidge responds with this by kicking Lance in the shin.

The young man bites his lip, but doesn’t cry out. After a few seconds, the dull throbbing subsides. “RUDE!” He clears his throat, “ _As I was saying_ , I had to print something out on the first day. I guess I got the wrong one, because it was actually a drawing. It was pretty damn good, though.”

“Really?” Hunk pauses. He rubs his chin. “Was it an original drawing?”

“A copy, probably,” Lance shrugs.

“Yeah, I saw it at your place. Did you get it back to…” Pidge frowns. She tangles a hand in her hair and adjusts her glasses, saying, “Who was it again?”

“I don’t know… Someone Kogane?”

“Yeah, I’ve got no clue who Kogane is.” Hunk mutters. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush.”

“Maybe.” Lance sighs. He leans back in the chair, reveling in the softness, as he toys with a bit of his hair. “Oh, and there was some asshole in the library. Really rude, annoying, emo type.”

Both Pidge and Hunk nod. Though it seems that they both have more to say, the ringing of the kitchen timer interrupts the discussion.

“Dinner’s ready!” Hunk practically sings.

Pidge wastes no time. Despite her small frame, she loves food just as much as her roommate, and she’s scrambling for the kitchen with equal speed and enthusiasm.

By the time the food is served, the conversation has strayed away from college. Whoever Kogane is, they’re the last thing on Lance’s mind as the trio plays Cards Against Humanity.

* * *

**THURSDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER** **…**

Shiro is a tall, attractive man. He shares many traits with Keith, including a defined jawline and eyes expressive enough to speak for themselves. However, that’s where the similarities end. His skin is slightly paler, and his build is far bulkier. Though most say he’s too old for it, be doggedly maintains his hair with a white forelock, re-dyeing it every month. He stands before one of the many re-shelving carts in the library, clutching a tattered encyclopedia in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Rose says that we’re not allowed to eat or drink in here,” Keith comments, recalling an incident a few days ago. “Something about contaminating the books with food.”

“I’m a special exception,” Shiro smirks.

Keith sighs. After rolling his eyes at his brother’s antics, he buries his hands in his pockets.

“How’s the drawing going?” Dark brown eyes focus intently on the cracked spine of the ancient tome. At one point, surely, this book was useful; now, it’s just taking up space. “Are you still doing one drawing every day?”

A nod serves as Keith’s reply.

“Great!” The older man tucks the book under his arm and gestures for his younger brother to follow, continuing, “So, have you made any new friends?”

A shrug. Keith takes a few moments to take stock of the past few days. He’s met people, sure. How could you _not_ meet people on a college campus? _Speaking_ to them is a completely different story. Of course, he can’t tell his brother that he hasn’t made any attempts at creating meaningful bonds with people. So, he avoids the question. “There’s a girl in my art class…”

“Mhm,” Shiro turns. Now, walking backwards, he looks like the dictionary definition of excitement. A smile stretches from ear to ear, and his eyes are aglow with intrigue. “What’s her name?”

“Shay?” Keith frowns. Honestly, he doesn’t _really_ remember the girl’s name. He’s guessing, taking stabs in the dark, and it doesn’t matter to him if he’s right or wrong. “Communications major, real big into K-pop…”

A snort of laughter from Shiro causes the younger of the pair to jump. “Oh! I know her! She’s in my grade.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, as though he’s interested, though he’s mostly letting his brother lead the discussion. He has no interest in discussing how his first week is going. So far, everything is far from exciting.

“I went to a party once, with her and Slav, and she ended up doing karaoke all night.” Here, there’s a brief silence. Shiro returns the book to its proper place and, after a moment, he begins toying with the white portion of his hair, which hangs in his face. “You haven’t been going out much, have you?”

“No,” admits the younger man. He turns his face away and stares intently at a sticker on the floor. It’s an orange circle around a white “L,” presumably a label from someone’s clothes. “Why?”

“Allura’s sorority is holding a big party on Friday. It’s pretty hard to get in, but, luckily for you,” here, Shiro smirks. He throws his arm around his brother’s shoulders and pulls him into an affectionate side-hug. “Your older brother has  _connections_.”

Keith finds himself biting his tongue. Honestly, he has no interest in going to a party. Whereas Shiro has innate talent—a sort of contagious charisma—he’s… Well… A lump begins to form in his throat. “Great,” he mutters, “And when is this?”

* * *

**FRIDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER** **…**

Although the party is hosted by the Delta Alpha Theta sorority, it’s being held at the Alpha Sigma Sigma fraternity house. It’s a larger building, and it’s often referred to as the drunkest spot on campus. If a party is worth anything, it’s at Alpha Sigma Sigma. The house isn’t all that impressive, and, with all the party-goers, it’s extremely cramped. By the time Lance arrives, clutching the printed paper passes Hunk gave him, courtesy of Shiro (apparently, a friend of Hunk’s), the festivities have poured into the yard. An inflatable children’s pool has been brought out, and it’s filled with some dubiously murky water. A beer keg has managed to make its way into the middle of the uneven concrete pathway, and a red-haired man with an impressively waxed mustache is doing a handstand on top. Two people—a blond man with obscenely pale skin and sunglasses, and a man Lance recognizes as Pidge’s older brother, Matt—support either leg.

Inside the house isn’t much better. Everything is permeated by the stench of weed, and the trash cans reek of discarded Keystone beer and puke. Another pair of men happens to be fighting by the garbage receptacle closest to the door; a short, round-bellied man with wild black hair and brown skin is busy dunking another man, with much paler skin and ridiculous-looking red-blue glasses into the trash. Around this, the crowd ebbs and flows to the beat of some ridiculously loud pop music, and the amount of people in the space has warmed it considerably.

Not exactly wanting to be crushed to death by a gaggle of marijuana-scented upperclassmen, Lance elbows his way to the kitchen. To his disappointment, he finds nothing more than dozens of cheap beer and some Angry Orchard. He reluctantly takes a bottle of the latter, then heads outside to wait.

The minute his foot crosses the threshold, he’s besieged by a familiar face.

“LANCE!” Matt wraps an arm around Lance’s shoulders. He has the same wild chestnut-colored hair as Pidge, and his smile is equally infectious. From the way his words are slurring together, it’s obvious that he’s drunk. “You made it! Dude, you’ve got to see this shit. You need to _see_ it.”

“See… what?” Lance furrows his brows. Over Matt’s shoulder, he can see a crowd has gathered in the middle of the yard, across from the pool. Between legs, a plywood board is visible. Wild hooting and hollering fills the air. Lance tries to listen, only to be pulled behind an over-zealous Holt.

When the escorting comes to an end, Lance is met with an odd sight. Two of the spherical robots—Spheros, if he remembers correctly—roll and bounce across the rough plywood board. Both are covered by small cups, which have knives taped to the top, and a balloon taped to the back. One cup is green and the other, orange. Predictably, the controllers of these mind-numblingly horrible ideas are an inebriated Hunk and Pidge.

“I’m going to _kick your ass_!” Pidge calls, from one side of the board.

Hunk snorts with laughter. “In your dreams, Pidge!”

The strange, weaponized educational tools begin circling one another. Pidge’s remains in the center, spinning like a deadly ballerina, while Hunk’s, encased in a much heavier, sturdier cup, lumbers around it.

_Clearly,_ Lance thinks, _This is going to be one hell of a party._

* * *

**FRIDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER** **…**

What nobody knows about Keith is that he isn’t drinking alcohol. Sure, he’s holding a red Solo cup. Yes, it looks like alcohol. But, what’s inside? Root beer. Keith has been drinking root beer for the past five hours, and absolutely no one has noticed. In fact, several have greeted him with salutations of, “Kogane’s letting loose!”, “Oh shit, chug it down,” or something similar. He has nothing against alcohol; he consumes it from time to time. Today, however, he just doesn’t feel like drinking himself into a stupor.

Not that his brother notices this. That much is obvious by the way he staggers forward.

“Keith, pal, buddy,” Shiro mumbles, his vowels indistinct and his words near-incoherent, “Bro, you have to do me a solid.”

A long, disgruntled sigh comes from the younger sibling. “Yeah, Shiro?”

“So, Allura and I have some beer pong going, right? It’s keeping everyone happy and shit, yeah. Really happy.” A belch interrupts the commentary. Shiro’s breath reeks of alcohol, and it’s obvious that he’s consumed quite a bit of it. “Yeah, well, I have this group of friends. Lance, Pidge, and Hunk. Great dudes. Cool kids. They’re all… I don’t think Lance is shit-faced, but he’s pretty damn happy.” At this point, there’s another brief pause. Throwing the bottom of the bottle into the air, Shiro downs the last bit of ale from his bottle. “Well, they’re calling themselves Team Voltron, and they bet me a hundred bucks that they can beer pong us out of existence…”

Keith’s brows knit together.

Shiro clarifies, “Pidge. She said that.” He holds his hands up, adding air quotes, as he continues, “Team Voltron is going to kick your ass so hard it’ll be split into five different parts and scattered across the galaxy.” His hands drop back to his sides. “Everyone is absolutely fucked right now, so…”

“What about Coran?” Keith asks, referring to Allura’s cousin.

A nervous laugh escapes Shiro. He points to the right.

Following the gesture, one can easily see the problem. Coran is busy doing weird, alcohol-addled attempts at magic. The crowd around him seems to be equally out of it, because they’re enthralled with the botched illusions.

“Fine.” Keith ties his hair back and follows his brother into the dining room.

On the other side of the table, he sees the opposing team. There’s a girl, short, small, but radiating an uncanny, horrifying amount of rage. Then, there’s two young men. One is large, with shoulders even wider than Shiro’s, and the other is…

Keith squints. His mind races, connecting the dots, and he recognizes the other man as the stranger from the library. He groans. For a moment, he considers backing down. Before he can, Shiro shoves a ping pong ball into his hand.

“House shoots first,” announces Allura, smirking.

Keith shrugs. Sober beer pong is, to him, remarkably easy. He tosses the ball with a fair amount of force, sending it in a mostly straight line. It bounces against the far side of the frontmost cup, then splashes into the water.

On the ridiculously named Team Voltron side, Pidge (the only person Keith can instantly name) curses. Meanwhile, the larger of the two men lumbers forward. After downing one of the designated beer cups, which are set apart from the main ones, he throws the ball. It overshoots the table completely, and manages to make it across the hall, where it subsequently hits Coran on the back of the head.

Keith goes again, and makes the shot again.

The pattern continues, back and forth, until the score is ridiculously uneven. Team Voltron has only one cup remaining, while Keith’s side retains eight of its original ten.

“WHO THE HELL IS THIS DOUCHEBAG!?” The familiar man exclaims right before Keith takes another shot. He gestures across the table, locks eyes with him, and snarls. “YOU THINK YOU’RE SOME BIG SHOT, DON’T YOU!?”

Having frozen mid-throw, Keith pockets the ball. He straightens his back, shrugs, and averts his gaze. “I’ve made the last nine shots.”

“Oh, thanks, smartass!” exclaims the stranger. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but _I_ _’m_ the beer pong master around here!”

“Sure?” Keith’s confusion grows. He studies the man, taking in his thick brown hair and sky blue eyes, and folds his arms across his chest.

At this point, Shiro interjects. “Lance, just let Keith take the shot.” He hiccups.

Lance…

Keith commits the name to memory. He pulls the ball from his pocket, tosses it, and smirks at the resultant plop.

Pidge lets loose a string of creative profanity before promptly turning to a sobbing, sniffling mess.

With one hand, the larger man (by process of elimination, Hunk) pats the inconsolable, drunken woman on the back. The other hand holds onto the shirt collar of a raging Lance. “Well, you won, Shiro. I’ll drop the money off tomorrow.”

Shiro grins.

Keith allows himself the luxury of a relieved sigh. Returning his hands to his pockets, he turns and begins the walk back to his dorm. Today has been eventful enough for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i completely forgot i was writing this oops uuuuuuuuuuh
> 
> UPDATE: I forgot I had an update ready for almost half a year ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**MONDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER** **…**

“Yeah, I have no idea who he is.” Keith’s brows furrow as he concludes his statement. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and some of the liberally applied whipped cream sticks to his lip. He licks it off before withdrawing the cup, so that he doesn’t publicly display a hot chocolate mustache. When he sets down his mug, the ceramic vessel makes a satisfyingly solid thud. “He came into the library on the first day and handed me back my drawing…”

Pidge and Hunk exchange glances, though Keith doesn’t notice.

Shiro, meanwhile, leans back. He rubs his chin, where a bit of black stubble is beginning to show, and hums. “Sounds like one weird guy to me, Keith. “And you have no clue who he is?”

“No!” Keith groans. He leans back, sinking into the oily red booth, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If I knew that, do you think I’d be asking about it? Whatever, what’re you getting?”

Shiro shrugs.

Now, Pidge speaks up. She adjusts her glasses, leans into the menu, and smirks. “You’ll never _guess_ what I’m getting, losers.”

“It’s the chicken fingers,” Hunk says.

Pidge opens her mouth, as if to dispute the statement, only to abruptly slam it shut. With a vaguely convincing pout, she folds her arms across her chest. “Fine. Maybe… Yeah.”

“And… Are we supposed to be surprised?” Shiro’s comment is accompanied by a slight smile. It’s a subtle, soft expression, the sort a bemused parent might give a mischievous child.

Keith considers saying something.

Pidge, instead, jumps on the opportunity. “Way to look proud, Dad.”

Shiro startles. A pink hue colors his cheeks, and he tugs at the black mandarin collar of his jacket. “Hey, now, didn’t we all agree to stop calling me ‘Dad’?” he sputters.

The rest of the group replies in unison, “Nope.”

A long sigh. Shiro folds his arms on top of the table and buries his face in them.

Hunk, meanwhile, beams as if he’d just received a sack full of cash. “Well, now that Dad isn’t paying attention, we can talk about the _real_ shit, right?” He laughs heartily. “How are you and Slav doing?”

“I’m going to murder that son of a bitch within the next three weeks,” deadpans Keith. He grabs his coffee and peers into it, as if he can divine some sort of fortune from its swirling brown depths. “I mean… I guess he’s okay.”

“Don’t murder your roommate, you’ll get expelled,” Shiro interjects. He doesn’t lift his head, and his voice is muffled.

“You’re always welcome to come stay with Hunk and I,” Pidge says. She sets aside her menu, stacking it where Hunk left his, before eying over her roommate. “Speaking of which, what’re you getting?”

“The Route 66,” announces Hunk, his face the image of triumph. “Mushrooms and swiss on a brioche bun.”

Though he says nothing, Keith grins. He can feel the anticipation radiating from Hunk. And, after the orders have been taken, that sensation intensifies. If Hunk’s excitement for this burger was made of gold, then Keith is certain he’d have enough to last himself a lifetime

“So…” Shiro sits up. As he often does when nervous, he tows with the white portion of his hair.

“So.” Pidge supplies.

“Well, this lunch wasn’t for _nothing_ ,” Shiro says. He clears his throat, eyes the glass of water in front of him, and proceeds to chug a fair portion of it. “Keith, you already know what I’m about to say.”

“I do?” Keith frowns.

His mind scrambles. Though he’s sure that he’d immediately recall anything important his older brother had told him recently, his hectic schedule hasn’t been kind to his sleeping schedule. As it turns out, college life takes some getting used to.

“Allura and I…” Shiro begins. Like a light switch being turned on, the piece of the puzzle falls into place. Keith’s mind provides the conclusion in time with Shiro’s voice. “…are getting hitched.”

“Congratulations!” Hunk grins.

Pidge’s expression is more subdued, but no less positive. “That’s great, but who the _hell_ says ‘getting hitched’ any more?”

“I do!” Shiro shoots back.

A snicker of laughter escapes Pidge. She brushes some of her hair out of her face before raising her glass, in which is a root beer float. “We’re too young to go out and get drunk with you at your bachelor’s party, aren’t we?”

“YES!” The response is swift, as if the very idea has offended Shiro. “I can’t get you all drunk! You’re underage.” His voice is stern but, at this point, he sighs. A small smile tugs at the edges of his lips as he continues, “But, if you wanted to have a few drinks behind my back, that’s your prerogative.”

“PARTY!” Pidge and Hunk clink their glasses together.

Shiro, naturally, joins in.

And, by now, Keith is inclined to follow suit. He raises his mug.

“We’re not doing the ceremony until after we graduate, of course, but…”

“Did you pick a ring?” Pidge asks. She shoves her glass out of the way and leans on the table, getting closer to Keith in the process, “Have you. Picked. A ring?”

“Yeah, about that…” Shiro begins, his fingers once again twining around his forelock.

“Damn, we’re going to have to fix that.” Pidge rolls her eyes dramatically. She drops back, into the booth, and pulls out her phone.

From here, the discussion devolves into an examination of the different types of rings. What sort of ring do they want, should they match? It’s like consulting a catalogue, but if the catalogue was a tech-savvy woman named Pidge.

 

**TUESDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER** **…**

The Altea Agora is a small, quaint little cafe in town, just a few minutes’ walk from the main campus. It’s not officially part of the college, but it’s part of the small town surrounding it. Shiro has, on multiple occasions, told Keith to go for lunch. Until now, though, he hasn’t had time to go.

The walls are covered in old posters, each signed by the musical group that played at the cafe. Apparently, on Saturdays, there’s live music. None of the bands are particularly noteworthy; they’re small-time musicians. Many of them are probably too indie to be Indie. Still, they make a nice talking point, and it seems that the man behind the counter today is more than happy to explain some of the history. When he’s done discussing this, Keith steps forward. He places an order, opting for a small coffee and a sandwich. From there, he sits at one of the many tables.

“Lance!” The name grabs Keith’s attention and, when he turns, he finds himself staring at a familiar face.

The man stands behind the counter, polishing a used cup. He takes the ticket, studies it, and trots back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reemerges. When he approaches the table, his eyes lock with its occupant. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I know you, right?” Keith asks.

Lance huffs, seemingly offended by the comment. “Of course you know me! You kicked my ass at beer pong at the frat party, remember?”

“Mhm.” Keith nods.

Lance sets the plate down. He turns to return to the kitchen, only to reconsider. Mid-stride, he freezes; he turns. “You work in the library, right?”

“Sometimes. When Shiro is busy, I’ll cover his shift.” Keith shrugs. He’s classified as a temporary worker, a sort of backup option. He gets paid for his duties, however infrequently they may be performed. “Why?”

“I found some photocopied notes on the printer last time I went in,” Lance mutters. He’s obviously avoiding eye contact, and his voice is tense. “The name at the top is KKogane.”

Keith smirks. “That would be me.”

At this point, something unexpected happens. A frown crosses Lance’s face. His brows furrow. “ _You_ _’re_ KKogane?”

“Keith. Keith Kogane. That’s my username, though, so I guess.”

“Oh.” A slow nod punctuates the statement. He opens his mouth to say more, but seems to decide otherwise. It slams shut, and he buries his hands in his pockets. “Let me know if you… need… anything, I guess.” At this point, he bolts.

Keith, meanwhile, stares at his lunch in disbelief.


End file.
